


Take It So You Burn

by moonstone1520



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Molly Hooper, Dark Molly Hooper, F/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27562648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstone1520/pseuds/moonstone1520
Summary: After Sherrinford, Molly is so, so cold.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Tom, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 13
Kudos: 84





	Take It So You Burn

**Author's Note:**

> This um, just sorta... happened.
> 
> Unbeta'd and not Brit-picked. I live for your love, especially after two years away. ❤️

It certainly wasn't how she thought her day would go, that was for damn sure.

The soft, almost silent _click_ as the line disconnected turned her cold, colder than she'd ever been in her entire life. She knew she wouldn't cry now, even if she wanted to. No, that would be too easy, too _obvious_.

She was too damn cold for tears.

This kind of cold, the kind that made you feel numb, empty, fucking _ancient_ inside, no there were only a few things to get rid of this kind of cold.

Despite everything, she wasn't ready to face those things, not quite yet.

Preternaturally calm, Molly put on her coat and walked out her front door.

-:-

She ended up at a church, of all places. It would have made her laugh if it wasn't so desperate.

She used to find solace in the hymns, the prayers, the homily. Back before she saw too many mangled corpses, too many mums dying early of breast cancer, and dads succumbing to alcoholism; too many children with the worst cancers - it seems they grew younger every year while she, cruelly, kept getting older.

She used to feel peace at church, before science robbed her of its comfort. How could she believe in a god that allowed accidents, illness, the unholy despair of those left behind? No, it was easier to shun God with a capital G and believe in the gods of science and logic. Those, at least, made sense to her. Science and logic didn't explain why a certain detective kept mucking about her life, but one thing at a time.

She inhaled deeply, bracing herself, and walked through the doors, half expecting lighting to strike her where she stood.

She slipped in, and slunk to the back pew, hoping to just be alone with her thoughts for a while. Hoping that she could reclaim that feeling she would have as a child during services, that indescribable peace and warmth that used to settle over her for an hour every week. She hadn’t been religious in _aeons_ but she could feel herself falling to where there would eventually be no return and there was still enough of _her_ left to try and grasp at anything that might allow her to scrabble out of the unending hole of her own making.

She sat there, the hard wood unyielding against her thighs. She closed her eyes and _breathed_ , allowing the gentle silence to envelope her, the ice inside of her warming slightly -

"Can I help you?"

The Irish lilt came out of nowhere and startled her so badly she jumped. Molly's eyes shot open and rested in horror on the priest in front of her, his hands out, placating.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed, "I didn't mean to frighten you. I just wanted to help."

Instinctually, she knew that; she knew he didn't mean her any harm. But _fucking hell_ , he looked just like Jim. Except for the white collar at his throat, and his eyes: they were warm, concerned, sincere.

Still, the sight of him turned her insides back to ice, and without a word, she fled the sanctuary.

-:-

For the first time in almost a year, she found herself at Tom's house.

He wasn't displeased to see her, but wouldn't manhandle her the way she wanted, _needed_. She needed to feel, he needed to love.

Love was the absolute last thing she needed in this moment.

Molly sighed as he softened between her legs, his apologies falling on her long deaf ears. He'd never been a fan of wall sex, preferring a bed and lovemaking, rather than hard and fast fucking.

She left him behind, the ache between her legs unfulfilled, the cold inside of her only spreading.

-:-

She arrived back at her flat just as night was falling. The bomb sniffing dogs and the police had arrived and disappeared during her absence, leaving her flat like a warzone. Books and papers everywhere, her furniture in disarray. Molly walked into her living room, looked at the disaster zone, and felt the ice inside of her chill further. 

  
"Sod it," she whispered to herself, dropping her coat and bag on the floor where she stood. She made her way over to her kitchen and opened the highest cabinet, pulling out the fifth of whiskey she kept for emergencies.

If this wasn't an emergency, she didn't know what was anymore.

Taking the bottle with her, she opened it mid stride and took a long pull as she walked to her sofa.

Fuck it all, the whiskey wasn't helping the cold inside her. The warmth she needed, so desperately craved, wasn't being filled by the alcohol.

Frustrated and angry, she threw the bottle with everything she had.

It shattered on the wall next to her front door, barely missing Sherlock's head.

"I wasn't exactly expecting a warm reception, but I certainly wasn't expecting that," he quipped.

Molly stayed silent, staring. Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably and closed the door behind him. "Molly --"

"What do you want, Sherlock?" she interrupted. Sherlock closed his mouth abruptly at her freezing tone.

"I came… to see if you needed… anything."

Molly felt the ice inside of her shatter, leaving nothing but numbness. She laughed bitterly.

"Need? What could I possibly need _from you_?" She lashed out at him verbally, hoping, wanting, _needing_ to hurt him the way he has always, _always_ hurt her. "It's never been about what I need," she continued, her voice strong, yet cold, as chilly as she felt inside, the temperature of her voice and body sinking by degrees faster and faster until Sherlock felt as cold as she did

"All these years, it's always been about you. The great Sherlock Holmes always, always getting what he wants from everyone around him, despite how much pain he puts them through, never giving a single bloody thought to how much pain he causes. I'm DONE with you, Sherlock Holmes," she snarled. "Get the fuck out of my flat."

"Molly," he begs, "Molly please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry--"

"Sorry?" she nearly shrieks. "YOU'RE SORRY?"

"Molly, I'll do anything--"

His sentence is cut off by her pinning him to her front door. Her strength surprises the hell out of him.

"Anything?" she whispers, her eyes flashing. "I'm so cold, Sherlock. I'm so cold."

He relaxes slightly: this is territory he could wade through. He shrugs out of his coat, draping it around her shoulders, rubbing her upper arms. "Better?" he asks, pleading.

Molly's eyes close at the gesture. But it's not enough. It will never be enough.

"Sherlock, when you said you'd do anything…" She lets her voice trail off, hoping against hope that for once he would pick up what she's dropping and run with it.

He surprises the hell out of her when he actually does.

He puts his arms around her and pulls her as close to him as he can physically get her, holding her so tightly she feels the ice inside of her melt just the slightest. He squeezes hard, so hard she can barely breathe, but it's something. All the while he whispers apologies, platitudes, nonsense in her ears, hoping against hope that she won't kick him out of her life, even though it's the very least he deserves after all these years.

The warmth of his arms, his breath, his coat, it all begins slowly seeping into her. But it's not enough to fill her and erase the numbness, not yet.

For once, Molly decides to stop giving, and simply _take_.

She shifts in his arms, determined, and raises herself on tip toe, pushing her mouth against his and stilling his stream of words that are still flowing from his lips. Immediately, a sort of chaotic calm settles over her, even as, oh so tentatively, Sherlock moves his mouth against hers.

It's still not enough. She doesn't need soft kisses and gentle words. She needs nails, bites, and pain. So she takes again, and bites his lower lip with enough pressure to draw blood. Sherlock jerks and pulls away shocked, his hand coming up to check for blood. Molly sets her jaw and stares at him.

"Is this what you want?" Sherlock asks, his voice deep and darker than she's ever heard it. She surprises them both by chuckling darkly.

"Fuck me, Sherlock Holmes. Make me hurt, make me bleed. Please, just make me feel _something_." She stares at him as he considers, his thoughts tumbling over each other faster and faster. "You've taken so much from me. I'm taking this."

Molly reaches up, takes Sherlock's face with both hands and slams her mouth into his. She takes advantage of his gasp of surprise by sweeping her tongue inside, and biting his lip.

Turnabout is fair play, however, and they've both had a shit day.

Sherlock recovers and takes control back, grabbing her waist, spinning them around and slamming her into the front door. They're both all hands, nails, teeth and tongue, and soon neither are clear as to whom the gasps and growls are coming from. Molly's hands make their way under his jacket and shirt and she rakes her nails down his back. With a hiss, Sherlock breaks away from her mouth, trailing burning kisses down her neck and latching onto her neck, leaving marks with his teeth. He tugs his coat off her, letting it drop to the floor, only coming up for air when she pushes him away so she can rip his jacket off his shoulders and pull his shirt tails from his trousers.

Her hands land on his buckle as he rucks her sweater up to lave attention onto her breasts, and when he bites down, Molly hisses with delight, her hands leaving his belt to tangle in his hair and pull.

The moan that comes out of his mouth makes her so turned on it's inhuman.

The feeling of cold air on her bum brings her back to reality slightly, and she kicks off her trousers and knickers, while working his belt. She loosens his pants and grabs his cock, squeezing hard. Sherlock slams his eyes closed and grunts in a strangled way - she'd be concerned she's hurting him, but the fact his cock is hard as steel and throbbing tells her he's enjoying the roughness as much as she is.

Sherlock allows her to manhandle him for a moment, but removes her hands from him and pins them above her head against the door. Taking his cue, Molly lifts her legs and wraps them around his waist; the next thing she knows, he's slid home inside of her and is thrusting hard and fast. Her climax approaches rapidly and she can barely catch her breath from the pounding she's taken, and she doesn't want to - because she can feel something again.

But her release stays out of reach and Sherlock, unusually conscious of what she needs, reaches down and pinches her clit hard.

That does it.

Molly screams as her climax washes over her like fire, Sherlock tumbling over the edge shortly after.

-:-

She comes to a few hours later, her entire body feeling like a walking bruise. Molly gingerly gets to her feet and steps around the debris from the previous night - she never did get around to cleaning up the flat.

In her bedroom, she looks at her body: nail and teeth marks litter her porcelain skin, bruises on her back, sides, and legs among the carpet burns she accrued. She huffs and turns back to look at Sherlock, sleeping on the floor next to the sofa, his back to her. He looks about as rough as she does.

But she feels warm again. She feels... better.

Maybe they needed this, she thinks as she joins Sherlock on the floor again. He drapes an arm around her in his sleep and pulls her close, his face resting against her neck. She pulls up the blanket that was draped over them and sighs contentedly.

The ice inside of her begins to melt.


End file.
